Something's Wrong with Arthur
by Pippi Longstockings
Summary: A couple of views on Arthur from his co-workers, incorporating a bit of a background to the team. Hoping to work up to some Arthur/Ariadne if there is enough interest. Hope you enjoy!
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** _Inception _is not mine, though I might wish that this was not the case. I duly pledge to forward all royalties to Nolan, though.

**Dedication: **To all those who love Arthur's style.

**Note: **This is my first ficlet for this fandom, and indeed my first fic for a good while. It is, sadly, un-beta'd so constructive criticism is more than welcome. At the moment this could go anywhere or nowhere so if you have any feelings about that either way you know what to do. *cough* **review** *cough*.

* * *

**(i) Perfectionism**

No, there was absolutely nothing wrong with Arthur.

Cobb had known Arthur for years.

Nearly seven years, actually, and that was a damn long time in this business. The kind of business where the phrase '_ditch the spare'_ cropped up more often than 'hello'.

If you wanted to stay in the game, you had to be the best. Then you had to know the best and choose the best. He'd worked a single job with Arthur and he'd known that he'd struck pure gold. Punctual, thorough, ice-cold, Arthur was a dream in and of himself. Mal didn't seem to resent his involvement in their private duo. Arthur seemed to know when to keep himself a little to one side, when to speak, when to vanish and slide the door closed behind him. It seemed to just _work. _

Cobb found himself delegating responsibility without even noticing.

Maybe: _you take the PASIV_;then, _you pick the base, Arthur. You know what we're looking for. _Next: _You tail the mark,_ or, _Cover my back, _before: _You go on in ahead and see what's what, _and, _What's your take on this one? Who should we get in for the con? _

Soon Arthur's opinion started to count more than his own.

Soon it was always: _May I take this moment, before we get down to anything, to introduce you to Arthur? He's my Point. _

Soon, _Look after her, Arthur. She's everything to me. _A dark nod and Cobb could relax. Mal would be in safe hands.

Soon he was under their skin like a PASIV needle - silent, unobtrusive, and indispensible to the Dream.

It was nearly a year before they realised that they really didn't want anything else. Their partnership had started to garner quite the reputation. Cobb with his imagination, his risks; Mal with her fire, her genius; Arthur, their steady, meticulous Second.

There were those unspoken rules after jobs: scatter and lie low for a few months. Every transient team member could at any point prove a sudden liability. You detached, you kept an ear to the ground, and when the coast was clear you made yourself available again.

When the Cobbs disappeared it was to their family, eventually to their kids. When Arthur disappeared it was completely. No last name, no number, no permanent mail box. Yet when there was a job on the horizon and Cobb started to think about how to get in touch, there he would be all of a sudden. His cabbie in LA would slide a piece of paper along with the receipt, "for you, sir. Said he was a friend" A number, written in Arthur's singular curlicue.

Maybe the red flag would be up on his suburban mail box. A missed call from an unknown number would pop up on Mal's blackberry. Once, Dom had spun round in shock when a miniature envelope had suddenly materialised in the breast pocket of his jacket.

Arthur always knew when he was needed, always found them.

They'd start to have fun on the job, maybe get a few drinks into him, try a game of Monopoly in which he'd play the boot, hogg the yellows and greens and make a packet on the stations, eyes narrowed in comical concentration.

Mal sometimes tried to coax information out of him; sometimes he'd loosen his tie and tell her a story about a small town in Michigan, sometimes about an old sheepdog called Seymour. Dom first saw the cigarette burns on his chest after a close call with a Jericho 941 had caused him to take off his shirt and white wife-beater. Nothing was said about that.

Another year past, and it was almost a friendship. Still nothing too much, just hints and flavours of a person behind the professional facade. Then, when he'd heard the news about the pregnancy, he'd pumped Dom's hand for all it was worth before pulling him into an unexpected hug. He'd sent peonies to Mal in hospital, while he and Dom had tied up another smooth job.

Then he'd disappeared for longer than usual.

Dom found himself in the kitchen, discussing the next prospective extraction with his wife as she mixed up a bottle of SMA for the infant Philippa, gurgling in her Moses basket, and he'd mentioned Arthur's name as inevitably as his own. He'd paused there, suddenly plagued by a doubt: What if he didn't like the arrangement as much as they did?

He'd turned to his wife, tapping his ballpoint on his knee. What if, one time, Arthur simply didn't reappear?

Naturally he did. This time in person, leaning against the white picket fence at the end of the drive, collar of his Burberry mac pulled up against the breeze. Mal had exchanged glances with her husband and gone out to meet him, holding a china tumbler of hot chocolate and pulling her Breton cardigan close.

She'd asked him how he was, and he'd shrugged a '_fine_'. She said that they'd missed him, and he'd asked about the baby with an unreadable expression, something distant and maybe slightly wary in his eyes. She'd smiled slowly, _"she's beautiful", _and she'd asked him to be godfather as he'd raised the drink to his lips.

His eyes had crinkled with the grin that had threatened to crack his cheeks and he scalded his mouth on the hot chocolate causing him to swear colourfully in between her laughing and his broad smiles. "But not with that kind of language!"

After that, they'd received a permanent number and a zip code, while Philippa received a golden locket for her christening. He'd even told them his last name.

* * *

They'd brought Eames in on a job not long after. Mal was home with the baby, and they were in Vegas.

Cobb was frowning at the white board, tugging at the hair at his temple with one hand as his other traced out the careful choreography of cons that intended to fool Tycoon's Wife and Tycoon's Wife's Yoga Instructor/Potential Adulterous Lover at the same time.

Arthur was pouring over glossy snapshots of the rather weasely-looking man, propping his weight uncomfortably on his knuckles as he leant over the table. He looked up with a dour smile, "Remind me why simply catching them _in flagrante _with a long-lens wasn't enough?" Afterthought: "I have a fedora."

Cobb snorted briefly but didn't bother to answer, "We need a thief. I can't cover the whole extraction this time and I need you to work with me on the set-up with the wife."

"Eames". Cobb could tell from the thinning of his lips as he said the name, that Arthur was passing on the reference perhaps against his better judgement.

"Eames? Never heard of him." That seemed to please Arthur somewhat if the little smirk was anything to go by.

"Rich British bastard. Tourist gone pro. The man's a clown, but… " This was as Dom was pulling his you're-not-exactly-selling-this-guy-to-me face, "but he's pretty damn good at what he does. He's dabbling in forgery last I heard, and not half bad at that either." A pause. "Plus, he's in town for a wedding."

Cobb paused thoughtfully, eyeing the diagram again, "A forger… Now, there's an idea. Maybe you'll get to use the long lens after all."

Arthur was already ahead of him, sliding the photos back into their manila envelope with a tight smile. "Great. Keep this guy out of it altogether this time. Impersonate the Yoga Guru, set up a date, maybe even let her do all the suggesting. Then get to him disguised as her, repeat the instructions and tip off the husband. Not as neat to split the job, but certainly safer. Much more control for us."

Cobb nodded, "Ok. Get this Eames in. You'll have to haggle him down on the cut if he gets opportunistic. That last fool was a flake _and_ a rip-off."

"Done and done." Arthur was already moving away, sweeping his coat from the back of the chair, sheathing his charcoal suit in calico.

Cobb was tempted to follow, perhaps to see one of Arthur's notorious cloak and dagger ways of making contact, but by the time he had moved to the door, the calico frock coat was gone.

* * *

Cobb secretly liked Eames, but would never say so. He didn't want Arthur to think he was anything other than completely on his side. But relentless teasing aside, Cobb thought the guy had charisma that was hard to ignore.

It was chalk and cheese, and utterly self-perpetuating. The more Eames teased and made free with his cheeky wit, the more uptight and serious Arthur seemed, the more his quiet sarcastic humour went unheard. The more slovenly Eames dressed, the more Arthur seemed to be a pall bearer at a state funeral by comparison. The more Eames bragged and goaded, the more Arthur seemed to take himself desperately seriously. And so it went. Arthur, ever severe, had hardly cracked a smile in days.

The more Eames dealt out, the more ammunition he seemed to rake in for the next volley.

The job went off without a hitch.

Ironically enough, even when Eames seemed likely to prove the worst kind of careless cowboy in the business, unwilling to listen to even the most fundamental strategic discussions without some infuriatingly flippant contribution, Dom couldn't help but completely trust him to pull off his part (which of course he did, and some, when he pulled the Yoga Yogi into a lip searing kiss…)

Why? Because Arthur had recommended him, of course. And Arthur would never jeopardise a con.

So, Eames settled himself firmly into the category of doing a job _in style, _rather than simply slapdash.

And Arthur looked liked a paranoid old woman by comparison. Which Eames of course duly pointed out at every opportunity.

Especially when he found out that Arthur kept all his notes in triplicate.

And colour-coded.

But Cobb would know - and Mal, who had seen him burping the baby Philippa until she puked all over the back of his Saville Row tweed with dark eyes shining with unadulterated contented joy – that really, no matter what Eames had to contribute on the matter, their Arthur had absolutely nothing wrong with him.

* * *

**Note: **To anyone confused, I've naughtily switched the chapters round. I don't know whether disrupted chronology is better or not. You tell me, I guess! I hope you like it. I worry my style is a little heavy and difficult to read, so crit is more than welcome. You tell me what you'd like to see and where you'd like it to go! I really hope someone enjoys! xxx


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** _Inception _is not mine, though I might wish that this was not the case. I duly pledge to forward all royalties to Nolan, though.

**Dedication: **To all those who love Arthur's style.

**Note: **This is my first ficlet for this fandom, and indeed my first fic for a good while. It is, sadly, un-beta'd so constructive criticism is more than welcome. At the moment this could go anywhere or nowhere so if you have any feelings about that either way you know what to do. *cough* **review** *cough*.

* * *

**(ii) OCD  
**

Contrary to what Eames might think, there was absolutely nothing wrong with Arthur.

For a start there was no Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder.

That particular chestnut had been slyly suggested when Arthur had ill-advisedly allowed the team to use his apartment as a base before a job.

Arthur had never invited anyone to his place before, not even Cobb or his wife. Maybe it was one of several places.

Arthur was as unknown to the others in the Team as his surname.

So when he had offered his apartment, casually over a coffee break as it turned out, Eames thought he had won a Golden Ticket to Willy Wonka's 'good stuff'.

The job was a big one. Big fat zeros involved and, as it turned out, big fat hit men with big fat gaping holes where their consciences ought to be. Their last centre of operations, in an abandoned office block up for sale, had been riddled with bullets within days of the hit being put out on their heads.

Eames had smugly learnt that he was worth at least as much as Arthur after some gentle probing into the right channels. He told him as much.

Arthur had ignored him and spoke with his usual quiet gravity. "I've got a place we can use. Trust me, it's invisible."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, I live there."

Cobb had nearly snorted out his Cappuccino.

He'd given them the address to memorise and trusted each to lose their tails before they arrived. He'd barely finished when the tell-tale screech of tires outside the Macdonalds Drive-Thru to which they'd temporarily re-converged alerted them to the next round of hit and run. Arthur had just straightened his tie implacably, reached for his Glock 17, and headed out the side entrance like an old-school James Bond. The impression was only slightly undermined by the garish 9-foot plastic Ronald Macdonald to his right.

"See you in all in 12 hours."

The bullets zipped past and Eames ducked for the counter.

* * *

Eames had paused in the spacious lobby, battered loafers testing the dark parquet, and looked about him, rolling his tongue against the back of his teeth in that particularly obnoxious way of his.

Even when he was grudgingly impressed.

It was the penthouse of a converted river warehouse, all clean functional modern lines and pale wintry sunlight. Arthur's clinical, corporate Dream Space created in actuality. Not a mote of dust, no evidence that it had ever contained a living occupant.

The broad windows showed no smears or smudges, just plates of transparency as perfect as though they had just had the protective plastic peeled away.

The furniture was un-rumpled, un-indented; all arranged in exact show-room formation. Every piece an antique in solid, scrolling oak. Elaborate filigree and chiselled designs supported upholstery in pale blues and greens, age-faded to only subtle hint at their former designs and whimsically incongruous with the surrounding modernity.

There was a marble bust on a white pillar, Roman, gazing blankly across the furnishings; a collection of Ottoman pistols arranged in thematic order; a Renoir (fake?) in an unwieldy golden frame simply propped against a white wall, un-hung.

They were like items in a museum, waiting to be displayed. A grandfather clock cleaved through the seconds with its heavy, rhythmic pendulum.

_Tick tock tick._

_Just needs some nice white dust sheets to give the place that homely feel_, Eames thought to himself caustically, letting his poker chip fan across his knuckles and back again, _and maybe those Dr Who Weeping Angels coming out of the cupboards_.

Arthur might well come from another planet, he decided and took his time during the meeting to slip off and pry into the rest of the flat.

Eames prided himself on being nothing less than a keen observer of his fellow man – an anthropologist, if you will.

_A prying shit_, Arthur might well have contributed at this juncture in his usual humourless way.

The sleek galley kitchen, where the stainless steel utensils hung limply from their size-ordered hooks, showed no evidence of life: no food, no cupboard doors ajar, no coffee rings on the countertops; no morning's washing up abandoned in the sink. It was like a forensic team had swabbed it down for prints.

Eames paused on the steps for a moment as the sound of quiet voices drifted up from below and someone's nasal asinine laugh echoed briefly off the parquet. He identified the originator as Yuri, another forger they'd picked up for the job, to play one of some tycoon's twin sons in a double-cross. He was an obnoxious, arrogant prat of a man who liked the sound of his own voice and smoking vile _Sobranies_ imported from London. And this was Eames' opinion, so God knows what the others thought. But then Yuri had stumbled upon the hidden gem that was teasing their resident stick-in-the-mud of a Point Man and Eames had almost warmed to him. Almost.

He tried to imagine for a moment Arthur down below, scowling, forehead corrugated as he tried to unpick the inevitable insult, and grinned to himself as he continued up.

The bedroom, tucked away on an open mezzanine, was a poster for masculine good taste in aged wood and burgundy. But the bed could have been wrapped in plastic, too, for all that it looked used. No head indent on the pillow, no ripple in the bedspread to indicate a rapid smoothing out. All four corners were tucked and pressed and folded as crisply as a Savoy table napkin. Eames even checked for a pillow chocolate and directions to the mini-bar. The heavy silver candlestick on the nightstand held a single, slender, un-burnt taper. No alarm clock, no open book, no discarded clothes. The oriental rug was at perfect right angles, the ornate chest the same.

Eames tried to restrain himself from opening the closet door, he _really _did, but the results were good enough to make his toes curl in glee.

The suits were there.

All of them, like an anally-retentive's wet dream, arranged in colours, neatly pressed and crisply sheathed in flimsy plastic on their wooden hangers. Browns, charcoals, blacks and dove greys, pinstripes and wool-mixes, shirts from white through ivory to cream in starched regiments. Waistcoats hung in their impeccable two-tone legions, trousers – cigarette thin in their Burlington cut - and the ties, oh the ties… Eames couldn't resist running one exquisite silk filament through his fingers before releasing it to nestle back amongst its slender peers. Braces on the back of the door, shoes buffed to a sheen at the bottom including a pair of camel spats that wouldn't have looked out of place on Johnny Dillinger.

His own movement in a heavy mirror, again propped carelessly against the wall in its gilded frame, caused Eames to pause and catch sight of himself, caught red-handed by his own reflection.

He shifted uncomfortably for a moment, revealed in his wrinkled linen and garish silk paisley, feeling like a vagabond fingering the crown jewels. But then he remembered himself, squaring his shoulders, his battered but highly polished loafers peeking out of his oversized trousers like signposts for the quintessential self-effacing English gent on his grand tour. His distaste for the American's slick perfectionism returned full force and he slid home the closet door with careless force.

Last was the bathroom. Eames had got as far as noticing the toothbrushes were still in their hotel plastic and the soap still sporting a crest, when someone discretely cleared their throat behind him, nearly provoking a heart palpitation.

"Are you lost?" The baritone was dry.

Eames forced himself to turn casually, hopefully removing any kid-who-has-been-caught-with-his-fingers-in-the-cookie-jar expression as he did so. Arthur was leaning against the door-frame, arms folded, eyebrow arched. The light glanced across his slick hair.

Eames didn't skip a beat, "No need, darling, no need; just looking for the loo." He turned on the tap for good measure and made an ostentatious show of washing his hands with the un-touched lather before dabbing his fingers dry on a fluffy towel. The smell of Penthaligon's cologne drifted between them and Eames took a moment to recognise it as the crest on the soap. Expensive stuff. English, he noted with a twinge of renewed smugness.

Arthur's impassive face betrayed nothing, but his tone was decidedly unimpressed. "Well, we've made some progress downstairs. So, whenever you feel ready to rejoin us…?"

He straightened and departed. The parquet creaked gently under his weight. Eames followed and did his level best not too look even slightly abashed. He made sure to kick up a corner of the throw rug as he went past, quite unashamedly.

Cobb looked up from his architect's blueprint, clearly amused, as the pair returned to the group. Mal had draped herself on a chaise-longue near enough to slip a perfectly pedicured foot free from her skyscraper sling-backs and wind a toe affectionately into the hair at the nape of her husband's neck. She wore that look of quiet intensity that was becoming increasingly frequent and no less disconcerting, as though she was looking right through you to something invisible and privately amusing behind your back. "Ah, the prodigal son returns." Her voice was like a chill in the room, a low predatory purr, but Cobb laughed easily anyway.

Obliviously, Eames thought.

Eames exchanged a furtive glance with Arthur and was pleased to see that whatever he sensed was wrong with Mal had, at least, not escaped the Point Man's attention. Arthur's habitual scowl only deepened.

Arthur opened his mouth to say something - whether about himself or Mal's provocative behaviour, Eames couldn't be sure but either way considered it worth preventing – so cut across him with a smooth clap of his hands, slouching onto a sofa with such expert inelegance and arrogant splaying of legs that his trousers pulled dangerously at the knees.

"Yes, yes – sorry for holding up the party, chaps. I know this little _dream team_ simply grinds to a halt without me. Didn't know our boy Arthur here was so damned OCD it would take me twenty minutes to locate the lavvie."

See? Who said Eames couldn't be tactful?

Arthur's jaw tightened dangerously and a vein was starting to jump at his jaw, an habitual tell that meant the sour puss would never make more than a half decent poker player. Eames would ordinarily have been smug about that if Yuri's whiney bray hadn't soured the victory.

God, that man laughed like a diarrheic donkey.

Arthur meticulously lifted his trousers at the knees, a silent sartorial reproach in itself, or so Eames thought, before perching on the arm rest stiffly. "I am _not _obsessive compulsive". His tone was clipped.

"Of course you're not, darling. That explains the real injection of personality you've leant the décor. The asymmetrical dust mote whirling above the landing was a particularly tasteful touch."

"Shut up, Eames – we've got a job to do." That was Cobb, ever to the rescue. As though poor baby Arthur hadn't taken more than his fair share of bullets. Or Eames' jibes for that matter.

Eames ignored him as usual, "The kitchen looks like a morgue, old thing."

Arthur's frown was less measured than his voice, defensive. "I'm… not here a lot."

Well that was fair enough. Eames nodded encouragingly and not _at all_ condescendingly. "Ah." Silence descended like a snowscape.

Cobb looked between them, seemingly assessing whether or not any further white-knighting was necessary, before coughing and turning back to the plans. Mal was still smiling her predatory smile that sent shivers up his spine.

Arthur bent his dark, slick head over a dense page of his tight, spiky calligraphy and started to fill Eames in on the technicalities of the timing.

The pendulum continued to part the cool air with its heavy inertia.

_Tock tick tock. _

No, clearly there was nothing wrong with Arthur.

* * *

**Note: **Previously, this was the first chapter. Hope it wasn't too self-indulgent.


End file.
